The Day I Found Out I Am BRCA2 Positive

This post tells the story about the day I found out I am BRCA2 positive.

When you think about the major tests you’ve taken in your life, which ones come to mind?

Is it your driver’s license test(s), your ACT/SAT tests, a big test you aced, or failed, in high school or college? Or is it a test of the medical variety that comes to mind, such as a biopsy, bone scan or MRI?

I guess the title I chose for this post is an obvious give away about where it’s headed.

I remember that day well. There are so darn many of “those days” to remember. That day was another one of those “stand-out” days.

After my biopsy confirmed I did indeed have breast cancer, the next big piece of my particular cancer puzzle to figure out was my BRCA status.

Since my mother had already tested positive for the mutated gene, the chances were 50/50 I would as well. I was in the “thinking about getting tested” stage when cancer reared its ugly head speeding up the process for me. Cancer doesn’t allow you to think things over for too long.

I had to wait about two weeks for the test result to come back, and of course, my oncologist was out of town during the week of its expected arrival. Feeling more than a bit impatient a day or two after that expected arrival date, I decided to call the clinic and unsuccessfully attempted to talk the nurse into giving me the results over the phone.

She emphatically told me the results hadn’t arrived yet, and I would have to wait until my scheduled appointment on Tuesday; that was Friday. I didn’t believe her for a minute. I knew the results were in, and she was just following protocol; and I told her so, but she didn’t budge. Her lips were sealed. More waiting.

After hanging up the phone that day, I realized on top of everything else, I had surely sounded cynical, desperate, and probably more than a little annoying, but I didn’t care. I wanted answers.

On the following pleasant Tuesday in May 2010, Dear Hubby and I waited calmly in the exam room wondering about the next bomb shell. My oncologist slowly entered the room carrying the purple folder. If you’ve had the test, you know about the purple folder; at least it wasn’t pink.

Immediately, I knew from his demeanor what the results were. Actually, I knew even before he entered the room. Some things you just know. Call it woman’s intuition, or whatever. I somehow knew what the results would be.

Dear Hubby, my oncologist, and I calmly looked at the white sticker that had been attached to my purple folder. There they were. The same words I had seen on my mother’s folder: positive for a deleterious mutation. The same dreaded words in the same dark bold-faced black letters as if to further emphasize my doom.

I read the words over and over, and all I could think of was that they sounded more like words to describe some serious mental illness. I hope that doesn’t offend anyone who suffers from mental illness. If so, I apologize.

We weren’t surprised, or at least Dear Hubby and I were not. We were becoming more accustomed to hearing bad news.

However, seeing the words written down and stated out loud, somehow amplified their power and significance.

The results were in, and they were conclusive — not even “suspicious.”

My genes were tainted.

It was time to fine-tune our plan.

More on that later.

Read more about my genetic testing experience (among other things) in my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person:  A memoir about cancer as I know it.

What’s a test you failed?

Do you believe in intuition?

Have you had genetic testing or counseling?

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Read more in my memoir, Cancer Was Not a Gift & It Didn’t Make Me a Better Person: A memoir about cancer as I know it.